


The Water's Always Calling

by grand_adventure_running



Series: Wondrous Creature 'verse [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Acceptance, Falling In Love, First Crusade, M/M, Nicky is a Merman, Nicky's Catholic Guilt, Pining, Secrets, War, Wartime Violence, choosing each other, just in case someone missed it, mer!Nicky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grand_adventure_running/pseuds/grand_adventure_running
Summary: “We are for each other,” Yusuf decides early on. “It could have only happened if it had been meant to be.”“Destiny,” Nicolò says, realizing in the moment after he said it that his attempt at jest sounds too much like a true answer.There is something more, he thinks as he tries to fall asleep. Would you still find me and our immortality miraculous if I told you? If I showed you, would you instead think me monstrous?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Wondrous Creature 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024096
Comments: 17
Kudos: 212





	The Water's Always Calling

**Author's Note:**

> A sincere attempt was made to research period-specific terms (I have spent so much time looking at maps and timelines omg), but if I've used a term incorrectly please let me know! 
> 
> Someone in the comments on the first fic wondered how they met--which inspired me to write how Joe learned the truth about Nicky. 
> 
> Also, as someone who has only ever written in a dead fandom, the response to my first TOG fic has completely blown me out of the water, pun intended. Thank you SO much to everyone who has left kudos/commented/bookmarked. Incredible. This one is for you guys.

They met in war. Where else could a bond as profound as theirs be forged but in the clash of metal, the chaos of a battlefield. In blood and in cries of pain and rage. In unholy destruction.

Which is not to glorify war. It is a means of keeping perspective, remembering where they started. Nicky would not forget the young man he once was and all his faults. In this world, it is so easy to be wrong. Nicky has made a nine hundred year practice of being not _good_ but better than he was then. Had Joe the ability, he would pour praises on Nicky’s head until he is anointed anew, until he could rise unburdened by his past.

Joe likes to claim the world isn’t worthy of Nicky’s kindness. If that’s true, than not even Nicky is worthy of Joe’s heart, such is the magnitude of Joe’s irrepressible goodness.

They met in war, but despite of how life-changing their first exchange of blows were, that is not the meeting they hold so dear. Their second and third meetings are memorable for their persisting confusion and the world-upending realization they have become separate from every earthly thing. What do generals’ orders matter in the face of immortal life? What does natural order mean when neither of them stay dead?

Traveling together, deserting their respective sides of the war, and seeking answers together seemed to be the only conclusion that made sense.

They learn from each other quickly—language, religion, culture, history. They absorb everything about each other eagerly, each secretly hoping they would learn the answer to _why him? Why me?_

“We are for each other,” Yusuf decides early on. They had traveled together some handful of years by then. “It could have only happened if it had been meant to be.”

“Destiny,” Nicolò says, realizing in the moment after he said it that his attempt at jest sounds too much like a true answer.

The campfire’s light seems to glow brighter in Yusuf’s eyes as he says it. Those gentle, disarming eyes that Nicolò couldn’t ever hope to evade or forget. Those eyes that see more than Nicolò intends for him to find.

“Destiny,” Yusuf repeats and sound of the word in his mouth, soft and certain, lodges somewhere deep in Nicolò’s chest. Yusuf smiles. “Yes, that must be it.”

Nicolò looks away, face too warm. Perhaps he added too much wood to their fire, stoked it too hot. Later, as they bed down for the night, he feels guilty. Guilt has been a frequent companion for most of his adult life. He’s tried very hard these last few years to transmute his guilt into something more productive. Humility, for one, would be much preferable.

Yet it is guilt which stays with him.

There is one thing he still hasn’t told his dear companion and each season that passes fills his belly with an ocean of guilt.

_There is something more_ , he thinks as he tries to fall asleep. W _ould you still find me and our immortality miraculous if I told you? If I showed you, would you instead think me monstrous?_

He has hidden it well. His first lesson in life was knowing how to hide. His second was how to pray for forgiveness.

Ah, guilt. He was born with it, how could it ever depart from him?

* * *

A few years later, they are smuggling refugees across the Mediterranean. They know they cannot stop the war, immortal or not. They are but two men against thousands upon thousands. Instead of toppling empires, they turn to foiling armies and protecting the innocent. Yusuf does not count the numbers—any number. It would surely break his heart, but what else can they do. They cannot leave. They cannot die. So, they help.

They intercept riders carrying orders and ride ahead of armies to evacuate towns and villages. To forewarn. To prepare those who will not be able to escape in time. It’s dangerous work. No one will trust a Frank alone and even with Yusuf’s reassuring presence they cannot convince the people every time to take heed.

Those that do, they guide and guard until they reach lands far from the thunder of marching armies and the stench of death.

They don’t save everyone. They can’t. They even lose a number of lives they’ve successfully extracted from warzones, snatched from their grasps by a patrolman’s spear, an errant arrow, even beneath the trampling of war horses.

It is hard and bloody and harrowing, but they don’t stop.

There is better luck sailing west across the Mediterranean. As long as they skirt Egyptian shores carefully and avoid Frankish ships there is little trouble. The difficult part, among captured towns and cities, is getting families aboard without detection and leaving port.

Yusuf and Nicolò stand uneasy guard on deck as the crew haul on the oars to send the boat out, watching the movement of roaming soldiers, fearing their notice. It seemed all would be well—until Nicolò’s posture stiffens beside him. Yusuf follows his gaze—

There are three children on deck, the eldest trying to catch the younger two with blatant fright on her face.

This is a small merchant vessel. There wouldn’t be children aboard.

He turns back.

A soldier has stopped at the end of the dock. He’s staring at the children. At the frantic mother who emerges from below deck and shouts for the little ones. His hand reaches for his bow.

Yusuf runs, Nicolò at his side.

He grabs the mother and swings an arm around the closest two children and pushes them to the deck, covers them with his body. There’s shouting and then a splash. The mother screams in his ear, struggling beneath his arm.

He glances over his shoulder. The deck is empty.

A couple deckhands help the family below while Yusuf takes cover at the stern. Soldiers are racing to the edge of the dock—arrows fly through the air. There are calls to hail the Frank ship guarding access to the sea to intercept. A runner goes to light the signal but falls flat with Yusuf’s arrow in his throat. He fires on the soldiers until the merchant boat pulls out of range.

Shipmen have dropped the sails, hoping a breeze will propel them faster from the harbor. The oars churn in the water.

Yusuf scans the water, his heart clenched in his throat, but he does not see the child or Nicolò. He cannot abandon them, but the trouble is far from over.

The brazier still has not been lit—a small chaos of bodies and wounded soldiers have delayed anyone reaching it. They have minutes. He needs to go to the bow and prepare to fire on the Frank ship, should it move to engage.

His eyes skip over the water’s surface. His jaw tightens as seconds tick by, as the Franks scramble on the dock.

_I will come back_ , he vows. This is the not the first time they’ve been forcefully separated. They’ve always managed to find each other again.

He turns toward the bow, takes a running step, and then nearly trips over himself when Nicolò hauls himself over the edge of the deck, pushing the soaked child forward.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò calls, gasping.

He takes the child into his arms and lays her gently down. She’s limp and not conscious. She doesn’t breathe, but Yusuf feels her heartbeat in her throat. Nicolò crawls toward her, dripping water, and turns the girl onto her stomach. He opens her mouth and pats her back firmly with the heel of his hand, massaging briskly. Water trickles out—and then she coughs, gasps.

Nicolò relaxes with a heartfelt sigh, murmuring a thankful prayer under his breath. He rubs her back gently.

“She lives,” he whispers. “She lives.”

Miracle of miracles that neither of them drowned.

Yusuf touches his shoulder. “You saved her.”

Nicolò nods wearily. “Someone should take her to her mother. She will be worried.”

A deckhand picks up the stirring girl and disappears below.

Yusuf casts a glance ahead of them, but the Frank ship still has not moved. He offers a hand to Nicolò and pulls him to his feet. He grasps him by the shoulders, unable to keep an adrenaline-fueled grin from his face.

“I should have known a Genoan would be a strong swimmer.”

A strange smile flickers over Nicolò’s mouth, the corners of his eyes squinting with something like strain. Yusuf frowns, looks him over.

“Are you all right? Were you hit?”

“Fine. I am fine,” Nicolò tries to insist, but Yusuf turns him around and spies the broken arrow lodged beneath his shoulder. It pokes through the material of his shirt.

Yusuf hisses and reaches for it. “Let me…”

“No, it will—”

With a firm grasp on the base of the arrowhead, Yusuf gives it a swift yank. Nicolò groans. Yusuf braces him, lets him take a few breaths before letting him go. Blood stains his back, but Yusuf can see through the tear in the fabric the wound is already healing.

“Thank you,” Nicolò says between gritted teeth.

“Good? Yes? All right, let’s see this through.”

Yusuf shadows him to the bow, reassured that Nicolò is fine—better than fine, the man rescued a child and swam them both back to the boat…

Standing at the bow, Yusuf recalls the moment Nicolò heaved himself onto the deck. Starboard side. He braced himself against the starboard side of the boat with a child wrapped in one arm.

Nicolò fell from the port side. He swam to the opposite side of the boat. For cover, Yusuf rationalizes, to get out of range.

He _swam_ to the opposite side and kept up with half a dozen oarsmen?

No, of course not. Nicolò must have found purchase on the hull and pulled himself around the side of the boat.

He puts this aside and refocuses on the state of the harbor, where his attention needs to be. With the sails down, catching the coastal breeze, the small merchant vessel glides swiftly out to sea. They pass the Frank ship, whose crew watches them idly.

Luck. Luck, or divine intervention.

Yusuf turns to watch, tense. If the ship gives chase, they would far outstrip the smaller vessel. Four times as many oarsmen. A war ship. The Franks could easily sink them. The minutes pass and still the ship does not move. It grows smaller and smaller with distance.

“How did we manage to escape that,” Yusuf mutters.

Nicolò leans against the stern wall. The sea breeze ruffles the ends of his hair. His expression is still and calm, relaxed in a way he only is on the coast or on the water. One day Yusuf will take him sailing just so he can look a little longer on him like this.

If his poor heart could take it, that is. Dear Nicolò, sunlit against a glimmering sea, smiling unreservedly at something Yusuf has said, perhaps even lounging on his back and eating from Yusuf’s hand?

Only a mere fantasy and yet Yusuf’s heart still shivers.

If only his companion would make some subtle sign that such advances were welcome.

Yusuf will take him sailing, regardless. One day.

“Perhaps they had trouble with the vessel,” Nicolò suggests. Yusuf refocuses. “Or perhaps the soldiers could not light the signal.”

“Whatever it was, I am grateful for it. We may have just successfully safeguarded five families.”

Nicolò turns to him with a thoughtful expression, which softens into a barely perceptible smile. “May we safeguard even more,” he says quietly.

If he were permitted, Yusuf would kiss him. Instead, he leans beside Nicolò and cherishes the quiet moment.

* * *

Ten years after the battle Jerusalem and after five years of being at siege, Tripoli falls. For those five years Nicolò and Yusuf toil and struggle to provide aid but it becomes increasingly harder until it is nearly impossible. The risk to themselves—being caught, captured, tortured for information—proves too high.

Neither of them enjoy admitting it. It has happened only once so far, within that first bloody year at Tripoli as the Franks entrenched themselves and prepared for a long engagement. Those five days that Yusuf was held beyond reach, the unholy horror Nicolò unleashed to find him, the condition in which he found Yusuf… Never again would they allow it. Nicolò’s nights were sleepless, his dreams haunted for weeks afterward.

Yusuf rebounded with his irrepressible spirit. Faster, it seemed, than Nicolò. Never would Nicolò begrudge him for it and neither would he make Yusuf tend to him, as if Nicolò’s disturbed rest could ever be comparable to what Yusuf endured within that cell.

They leave Tripoli and receive news of its capture ten days later.

They join a caravan making its way through the desert, a long route around the conquered coastal cities. It takes several weeks. Nicolò has, over the years, gradually adjusted to the drier climate surrounding the Holy Land. Genoa is warm and humid and windy in its hottest season. Jerusalem, Acre, Damascus, Tripoli—all within a tract of dry coastal plain fading into semi-mountainous desert scrubland. It’s drier and hotter than Genoa. Far less rainfall.

Yusuf showed him how to cover his head for protection from the sun’s heat. He’s robed in layers of light fabric to keep out the blowing sands. The sunlight glaring off of the sand is hard on Nicolò’s fair eyes. A throbbing head becomes his constant companion. He drinks from a waterskin throughout the day, draining it sip by sip and resisting the urge to gulp it down quick.

He ends each day exhausted and grateful for the coolness of night, which banishes the sun’s heat swiftly. What a delight it is to shiver in such a climate.

Yusuf notices his poor condition and makes sure each morning that his waterskin is full, keeps an eye on him throughout the day. Some of the travelers, particularly those who had disagreed with the decision to allow Nicolò and Yusuf to join the caravan, scoff at his thin skin and mutter such things as he should have stayed in his own land.

Yusuf rides between Nicolò and those who would rather leave them behind. He maintains an amicable air and ingratiates himself by talking trade and discussing the running price of goods. Nicolò is happy to leave him to it. He concentrates on staying upright in the saddle.

The longer they stay in the desert the more Nicolò struggles. They have not gone so long as this before. They have not venture so far from water. There are two oases the caravan stops at to allow their camels to drink. Nicolò, feeling possessed by a feverish idea of stripping and submerging himself in the water, seats himself beneath the meager shade of a wiry tree and drinks. He can’t bring himself to look away from the bluish water, listening to the animals slurp noisily, watching the travelers rinse their faces clean of dust and sand.

Yusuf must see the naked longing in his face because he holds out one hand to him and beckons, “Come. You should refresh yourself.”

Nicolò takes his hand and lets himself be led to the water’s edge. He drops to his knees and lowers his hands into the water. Cups his trembling hands together and lifts a dripping handful to his face. It coasts over his closed eyes and over his cheeks, dripping down his neck. He wants to inhale it, let it wet his lungs. The tender skin to each side of his neck—his gills, concealed, pressed tightly closed—seize with startling pain. Coughing, he ducks his head and wipes the dripping water from his face. He touches his neck gingerly, finds the barely perceptible edges of his skin swollen, and prays the curving lines aren’t traced in red.

He perfunctorily washes the dried, gritty salt from his forehead and temples, ignores the desire to drink from his hands. Ignores the ache in his legs as he pushes himself upright and returns to the camel he’s been given to ride, which sits placidly with her legs folded beneath her. He pulls his waterskin from its place on the saddle and clutches the mouth of it tightly.

Yusuf, who followed him, watches with a notch in his brow—concern—as Nicolò drinks. “It will only be a few days more. Four or five at the most.”

“Hm.” He nods, ties the waterskin closed, and secures it to the saddle again.

Yusuf touches his arm, a light brush of fingertips over his sleeve. “You will hold out for me, won’t you?”

Nicolò turns a surprised look on him. “What makes you ask a question like that?”

A pained smile flickers briefly over Yusuf’s mouth. “You aren’t well, my friend. I watch you drink all day long and seem no better for it. Each day you droop a little more in your seat and I fear you’ll eventually tumble off your camel. I did not think…” His hand drifts up, perhaps about to touch Nicolò’s rough cheek or dry lips, but he appears to catch himself halfway and drops his hand. “We will get on a boat as soon as we are able and cross the sea. Perhaps…it is time we find different lands to walk.”

“Yusuf…”

His expression strains, sorrow darkening his eyes. “This war… We have been buried in it up to our throats for more than ten years. We could stay another ten years, or twenty years, without an end in sight. There is too much that has been lost, too much taken.”

“You want to leave,” Nicolò says faintly.

“I want,” Yusuf says, “to know if this is the purpose for which we have been granted unending life. If this war ends, will we be allowed our final rest?”

Stricken by the question, he can only stare with his heart in his throat.

“If it could be true, then I’m not sure I want to stay to find out,” Yusuf confesses quietly, careful not to be overheard. “We have fought for ten years and saved hundreds. We could stay and save hundreds more, but…I am not ready to be parted from you, Nicolò.”

“You…you have thought about this?”

Yusuf turns his face away, shamed. “For a few years, yes. I…hm. My heart is troubled and conflicted.”

_Tripoli,_ Nicolò thinks. Perhaps the last five years have affected his dear friend more than Nicolò suspected. Yusuf, whose sure heart never once lost its way despite the sea of blood spilt, despite the indiscriminate killing, is in need of rest.

“If I have disappointed you…”

“No,” Nicolò says swiftly. “No, impossible.”

Yusuf’s smile is wan, his bright eyes discouraged. “You have so much faith in me?”

“Of course.” He grasps his shoulder. “Yusuf, of course I do. I would challenge any priest, rabbi, or imam to find a better man than you. All would be lacking. If you say we should travel, then we will. If you say we should return in one month, or one year, or even in ten years, then I will follow you gladly.” He squeezed Yusuf’s shoulder gently. “I trust you.”

Yusuf’s eyes, ever expressive and ever captivating, watch him now with multitudes contained therein. Sorrow and doubt and pain—Nicolò feels his throat tighten in response.

“Think on it a few days more, yes?” he continues. “Then, when we reach the coast, have your answer.”

Yusuf nods pensively and Nicolò withdraws his hand. He turns to throw his leg over the camel’s saddle, but his companion’s soft question stops him.

“What have I done to deserve your faithfulness?”

Surprised, saddened by the question, Nicolò answers, “It is not a matter of what we deserve. It cannot be. There is nothing in my life I have done to deserve you—yet here you are.”

A pale imitation of a smile tugs at one corner of Yusuf’s mouth. “Now I know you have been in the desert too long. You aren’t speaking any sense.”

The leader of the caravan calls out, a signal to everyone to mount up and ready themselves to travel on. Nicolò swings into his saddle. Before he can prompt his camel to her feet, Yusuf steps closer and fixes Nicolò’s head covering, ensuring it’s settled securely across his brow and drapes protectively over his neck. His focus is disarming. Nicolò scarcely breathes.

Yusuf’s thumb pauses to rest on his jaw. He feels his throat click dryly as he swallows. Yusuf meets his gaze and this time his eyes are absent of inner turmoil, merely thoughtful as he regards him.

“I will have my answer when we reach the coast.” His thumb slides close to the corner of Nicolò’s mouth. Yusuf’s eyes flicker down to follow the movement, as if only just noticing his actions. Quickly, his touch disappears. “Be well, my friend. Only a few days more.”

“Yes,” he agrees hoarsely.

With a departing smile, Yusuf walks to his camel and settles into the saddle much more smoothly than Nicolò has managed. He watches Yusuf tug on the long reins and click his tongue. The animal throws her weight forward to unfold her hind legs and then slowly straightens out her front legs. Camels are one of the most awkward creatures Nicolò has ever seen on four legs and yet Yusuf’s familiarity with them makes the motion appear seamless.

Not so when Nicolò’s own camel lurches up onto her feet. Perhaps, with time he will be more comfortable on camelback, but then Nicolò isn’t sure he wants to be in a desert that long. As it is, he’s very fortunate his camel hasn’t tried to throw him. He’s certain he has been a poor rider.

With a suppressed sigh, he prepares himself to endure another unending day in the desert.

* * *

Three days later the caravan leaves them behind. Yusuf tried, but Musallam would not be convinced to wait for a Frank who slowed them down.

Yusuf watches them depart with unsurprised disappointment, holding firmly to the reins of their own two camels as they shift restlessly with the urge to follow the caravan.

Nearby, Nicolò hacks and coughs into the tough grass growing at the base of the tree he leans against.

Bracing himself against the heart-twisting sounds, Yusuf hobbles one leg of each camel with a length of rope so he can attend to his companion. In only a matter of days, Nicolò’s condition has worsened. He languishes beneath the sun, coughing and sweating and listing in his saddle, finding a modicum of relief only at night when the temperature plunges. Though he drinks and drinks throughout the day, it seems to only make him thirst more. The redness of his face and the sweat upon his brow indicate fever. He needs to rest, but there is no shelter to be found.

The best thing for Nicolò is to take him out of the desert and find a place to rest. A location two days hence if they’re able to maintain their pace.

Yusuf grasps his shoulder and helps him straighten up. Nicolò gasps raggedly, sweat-soaked strands of hair sticking to his temples.

“We have to keep moving,” he says, apologetic.

Nicolò nods, trying to calm his breathing.

His illness is strange. It’s not food-borne or water-borne. He coughs, but there is no rattle or wheeze in his breathing. Yusuf has asked after insect bites, perhaps venomous stings, but there is nothing. He fevers, but not as any sick person Yusuf has ever seen, not from within but without. It is as if the sun and the sand itself are trying to kill him.

Yusuf hates his suffering, hates that he can offer nothing to comfort him.

“Come,” he beckons, leading him back to the camels. “The sooner we progress, the sooner we will arrive. The sooner I can take you to a physician.”

Nicolò huffs a weak laugh. “As if they could cure me.”

Yusuf gets one of the camels to sit for Nicolò and frowns. “They can treat your discomforts, surely.”

“I need water, not medicine,” Nicolò rasps.

“And you will have plenty when we arrive,” he cajoles, thinking of the sea waiting for them.

Nicolò slides onto the saddle at his behest, but doesn’t take the reins yet. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes turned away in subtle shame.

“For what?” Yusuf asks, puzzled and further concerned by Nicolò’s condition. “There is no cause for apology.”

“The caravan…”

“Think nothing of it. What does it matter that we parted ways a few days earlier than expected? Our journey is nearly finished.”

Nicolò does not respond, not even to tacitly agree. Something else weighs on him, or else it is only the fever distracting his thoughts.

Yusuf places the reins in his hands, then curls his own around Nicolò’s. “Hold on, my dear friend. I won’t leave you.”

He looks up at Yusuf, then, with something heavy in his eyes. Their pale color, like the blue-green shallows of the Mediterranean, now seems nearly gray. Sapped of their vibrancy. Yusuf would take his face between his palms and he would press his lips to Nicolò’s brow so that his tired eyes might close, so that Nicolò might rest—but, instead, Yusuf squeezes his hands in emphasis.

Nicolò’s fingers tighten beneath his own. He tips his head forward in agreement.

Releasing his hands, Yusuf grasps the reins and clicks his tongue repeatedly. He braces Nicolò as the camel lumbers to her feet and after making sure Nicolò can keep his balance Yusuf goes to his own camel. A few minutes later, with Yusuf riding only a few paces ahead of his companion’s mount, they set off again.

This time, they are alone together. Behind him, Nicolò is silent. Yusuf does a lot of thinking.

* * *

The coastal town is small, bearing a port only big enough for fishing vessels. It’s harder to slip unnoticed into smaller places. Harder to broker a sense of trust that neither party will seek to harm the other, particularly when half of one party consists of a strange Frank. In this instance, it seems that Nicolò’s obvious poor health helps defang the implicit threat he poses. From what little he can coherently follow, and remember, the people here think Yusuf is a fool to waste his time on one such as Nicolò. When Yusuf asks for a room, the treatment of a physician, food and water, they demand a conflated price if they listen long enough to entertain a transaction.

Yusuf believes Nicolò’s suffering can be aided this way and he sees how close Yusuf is to capitulating to the price. He can’t let him spend so foolishly for nothing.

He straightens his back and lifts his head, breathes deeply and evenly, and says firmly, “No.”

Yusuf turns toward him, surprised by his interruption.

Nicolò addresses the man Yusuf is attempting to barter with for a few days’ lodging. “This is a fishing village. Do you own a boat?”

Mistrusting, the man scowls. “Why do you wish to know?”

“We will trade the camels for a boat. If you have no boat, then your neighbor’s boat. Or you son’s boat. Any sea-worthy boat.”

The man eyes the animals. “What need would I have for camels? This is a fishing village, as you said.”

“Then surely someone you know here is in need of desert travel. Trade the camels to them. You can see they are in good condition. Healthy, not overworked. You may have all of their necessary equipment, too.”

Yusuf watches with an air of faint confusion, but he does not intervene.

Finally, the man, Farooq, agrees to the trade. In a village of so little opportunity for resource variety, it is a good trade. There is equity in desert travel, even if the man had no personal need for the animals. Someone will, and then he will benefit again.

The boat they receive in return is small and simple, but well-made. Two people could easily maintain it. It’s not as sea-worthy as Nicolò had hoped—it would never cross the Mediterranean—but he hadn’t truly expected anyone in this town to own such a vessel. In any case, the value of their assets combined wouldn’t have been able to purchase one.

Farooq takes them to the boat personally, with their thanks—a helpful gesture that will avoid any accusations of theft. Seeing the water again steadies something within Nicolò and feeling the salt breeze on his skin makes him feel awake and alert after so many days of near-delirium. Yusuf helps him unpack their belongings from the camels and store them safely in the woven baskets lashed to the stern. He watches Nicolò curiously, anxiously observing his balance on the dock and the way his feet unerringly step into and off of the boat. Still, he doesn’t say anything and Nicolò is grateful.

They give their profuse thanks to Farooq and leave him in possession of their camels.

Nicolò unwinds the rope tying the boat to the dock and Yusuf hauls up the crudely fashioned iron anchor. Nicolò lowers the sail and pushes away from the dock with a long pole. A breeze fills the sail and carries them away from shore, out of the harbor, and finally away from the town. The waves are gentle, the rocking of the craft below him familiar, and Nicolò finally feels himself relax.

It has been so very long since he felt something like peace, but this comes close.

He checks their heading and once he’s certain they won’t drift much from their course, Nicolò sits on the deck and leans back against a basket containing their camping equipment. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes. The sun is warm, the breeze cool, and the scent of the water around them is fresh and bright.

Inevitably, Yusuf joins him. He reclines on the deck in front of him, leaning on one of his hands.

Nicolò waits for him to speak. It takes only minutes. Minutes during which he bears Yusuf’s silent study. He thinks of checking his neck, but the ache throbbing in the delicate skin has considerably lessened. It had taken more endurance than Nicolò thought he possessed to keep his gills pressed closed, fighting against a deep-rooted desperation to find relief. He resists, still, the pull of the water around them.

“While I, too, find the sea air restorative I must confess I do not understand the nature of your ailment, nor its evident panacea.”

He opens his eyes, greeted with a vibrant blue sky and wispy white clouds above him. “I told you I did not need medicine.”

“Nicolò, please. Explain it to me.”

He lifts his head. Yusuf now sits upright, his expression imploring. He fears something frightening and mysterious is wrong with Nicolò. Yusuf might not be wrong, but guilt at making him so worried squirms unpleasantly in his stomach.

What to say? Nearly all of Nicolò’s best words belong to the Church. His own have never served him particularly well, often left trapped in his head or fell faltering from his mouth. The ritual of sacrament and prayer had always appealed to him—what better words than those from Holy Scripture?—but no longer. Not in these last ten years spent fighting at Yusuf’s side, baffling and agitating and sabotaging the spreading Frankish advance, rendering aid to the Fatimid army and facilitating escape for Muslim civilians where they can.

Nicolò does not think he could stomach now the verses that used to bring him a semblance of peace. God had not been among them in the blood-soaked streets. God had not been with them when the Genoese ships had set sail all those years ago.

So, what to say? How can he explain this secret he has hidden all his life? Not even the Holy Word has ever been able to explain his existence. Dare he repeat the words his own father had used when Nicolò had been but a boy…

_“There are those on this earth who walk among mankind as imposters. Some are creatures of terrible mien. Others possess powers beyond Man and Heaven and even Hell below. Do nothing and say nothing to reveal them. Cast your eyes down and hold your tongue. They will not protect you. Only God will safeguard you. Beg the Lord Almighty to forgive your impertinence that you might be allowed to walk Creation in the guise of His image.”_

His father forbade him from revealing himself and would cuff him when he lingered too long by the shoreline with other boys his age. There were consequences, he lectured, and described how men would cut him like a fish to prove the only truth that would matter: Nicolò is not part of the host of man.

Perhaps he doesn’t need words after all.

What better proof than something Yusuf could see with his own eyes, touch with his own fingers?

He slides closer, folding his legs, until his knees bump against Yusuf’s. He holds out one hand, palm up, silently asking.

A puzzled frown wrinkles Yusuf’s forehead, but he doesn’t hesitate to place his hand in Nicolò’s. Such trust. Nicolò hopes what he is about to do doesn’t cause him to lose it.

He draws Yusuf’s hand to his neck and places his fingers precisely over his gills. He breathes deeply and concentrates. This is harder to do at will above the surface. His skin parts beneath Yusuf’s fingertips and three soft ridges of cartilage flex.

Yusuf’s fingers jerk in surprise. His eyes widen, lips parting. “What…”

He raises his other hand, so Nicolò captures that one, too, and presses it to the other side. Gently, Yusuf’s fingertips trace the curving edge of each gill cover. He leans closer, inspecting his fingertips as if anticipating blood. Nicolò tilts his head, allowing Yusuf a better look. He holds his breath and waits and lets Yusuf understand what, exactly, he’s looking at.

“Fish gills,” Yusuf murmurs, mystified. He brushes his thumb down the line of Nicolò’s neck, watching the gill covers press seamlessly to the skin.

Lungs aching, Nicolò holds Yusuf’s palms to his neck, fully concealing his gills again. He exhales and takes deep breaths through his nose. He lets go of Yusuf’s hands and drops his own into his lap. Instead of likewise withdrawing, Yusuf’s touch remains. He strokes Nicolò’s skin, ever so gently probing and palpating the area to determine the thoroughness of the disguise. The gill structures within are delicate, so the gill covers must be firm enough to protect them—but to camouflage them they need also to be as soft as the flesh and muscle around them.

Only a person who knows their existence would be able to tell the difference. He watches Yusuf’s face as he endeavors to find evidence of them beneath his fingertips. He hasn’t recoiled in horror or disgust, so Nicolò can only hope this means Yusuf won’t cut his throat and shove him overboard.

When Yusuf’s curiosity is finally as satisfied as it can be, he sits back. “I don’t think I understand.”

“There’s more,” he croaks. “If you want to see it. It…might help.”

Nicolò can’t read his expression beyond the vague shock and confusion that has settled over him, but he thinks Yusuf will be agreeable.

Eventually, he nods. “Yes. Please, show me.”

Standing, Nicolò casts a quick glance to the water around them. There aren’t any other boats nearby and the shore is far enough away that no one standing at the edge would be able to discern much. He disrobes, shrugging off the flowing outer robe, the long shirt, and casting off his trousers and boots.

He stands completely bare on the deck of their fishing boat, avoiding Yusuf’s expression. He doesn’t want to know until all of it is done. He jumps into the water from the side of the boat and—at last—goes plunging into the cool salt water he’s been craving for long, torturous weeks. He expels the air from his lungs and lets his gills flare free in the water. He can finally taste the sea again and sink into its powerful, welcoming embrace.

The pain of the change that overcomes him, a sensation like a binding being undone, is minimal to the relief he feels once he flexes his tail and propels himself through the water. He trails his fingers through the pale sand at the sea floor, startles schools of small fish, and finally swims back to the surface.

He finds Yusuf braced at the edge of the boat, peering into the water with apparent concern.

“You didn’t come up,” he says. “I thought you had…” He shakes his head instead of finishing. “But, of course, you’re fine.”

Nicolò glides closer to the boat, bracing himself against the hull. He discretely exchanges his breathing, closing his gills, water for air. He looks up at Yusuf and lifts the tip of his tail out of the water. He sees Yusuf catch sight of it, the widening of his eyes as he takes it in.

“How is this possible?”

“This is…what I really am,” he says. “I am not a man like you, Yusuf. I am not a man at all.”

Yusuf blinks quickly, another frown creasing his brow, and his eyes finally return to Nicolò’s face. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

His throat feels tight and dry, as if a desert wind has stolen away all the moisture in his mouth. “I am sorry if I have disappointed you.”

“No.” Yusuf shakes his head. “No. Nicolò, please. Allow me—would you allow me the chance to understand?”

He reaches down one hand, asking silently.

The boat is small enough and low enough to the water that Nicolò would only have to reach up to clasp his hand. He does and holds Yusuf’s hand fast.

“I will come up and…let you look, if you want. I will answer your questions, or try to. Yes?”

Yusuf squeezes his hand. “Yes.”

Nodding, he pulls away from Yusuf’s grip. “You might want to back up.”

Curious, Yusuf sits up and puts a little space between himself and the edge of the boat. Nicolò submerges, the tip of his fin flicking the air, and swims to a depth that should work for what he has in mind. The deck is not so high that he needs to put too much effort into it. He kicks hard and sprints for the surface, leaping into the air. With minimal grace, his lower body collides against the boat’s hull but he’s able to hook his arms over the edge of the deck. He pushes himself up, hands flat to the deck, to give achieve enough leverage to pull his waist level with the edge.

Yusuf hurries to help him, wrapping his arms around Nicolò’s torso. He pulls Nicolò onto the boat and sets him down quickly. He takes a step back to look at the entirety of him laid out on the deck. Since Nicolò’s tail is a little more than twice the length of his torso and his tail fins add another two-foot length, there is a lot of him to be seen.

He kneels beside Nicolò, which helps to make him feel not quite so gawked at. Nicolò’s scales are bright in the sunlight, pale and silvery all down the front and shading darker and bluer around the back. Natural oceanic camouflaging.

Nicolò can count on one hand the number of people who have seen him like this—all of them were family members. He can also count on one hand the number of times he’s seen each of his family members wearing their aquatic forms. His first lesson had been hiding, his second had been prayer, and his third had been swimming as he was made.

In short, he’s never felt so exposed. In short, his heart is beating like a war drum in his chest.

_What will you do, Yusuf? How do you think of me now?_

“Astonishing,” Yusuf says quietly, “and wonderful.”

“What—what did you say?” he demands, not trusting his ears. His blood pounds too loudly, surely he misheard.

Yusuf sits back on his heels, legs folded beneath himself, and rests his hands on his thighs. “I have spent weeks wondering if our immortality might not be the gift I thought it was, if our only purpose was to use it in ceaseless battle. Even if that is true, it’s not enough to stop me from fighting for what is right. But it was such a bleak thought and it could have been a very lonely existence if not for you, Nicolò. Then you took ill in the desert and I had no way to aid you. These last few days I believed I was losing you to a strange living death. I promised you the sea, but I had resigned it as a failed oath. Then, miracle of miracles, you revived just by fastening your eyes on the water.”

He pauses here to meet Nicolò’s gaze fully and honestly. There is such kindness in his eyes that Nicolò feels immediately unworthy—to reveal such a long-carried secret and not be met with revulsion? Unthinkable. And yet—

“Now here you are, more marvelous than I could have ever dreamed.”

Nicolò stares. “I don’t understand. How can you…?” He shakes his head. “Are you not angry? Horrified?”

Yusuf blinks with surprise. “What horror is there to find here? What anger could arise from joy? We have walked roads turned muddy with blood. We have watched innocents slaughtered before us. How could this possibly compare?”

He doesn’t dare to give in to hope just yet. “How can you accept this?”

“I accept you,” Yusuf says with subtle emphasis. “We are for each other.”

“Even in the face of this?”

“My dear Nicolò, all I see is you.”

Something unnamable, something as huge and as powerful as a tidal wave rises up within him. It crashes as Yusuf cups the back of Nicolò’s head, hand threading into his wet hair, and leans in to press his forehead against his own. Nicolò’s exhales a tremulous breath and closes his eyes.

“Oh, my Nicolò, I see your kindness and your gentle heart. I see your strength and your upright spirit. I see your fierceness in battle and your willingness to throw yourself before an enemy to save the innocent life you guard. I could not have endured these long, terrible years without you. Do you understand? I will not leave you or cast you out or revile you. You are too precious to me.”

“I am undeserving—”

“It is not a matter of what we deserve. You said that to me before, do you remember? I would like to elaborate on that, if you will allow me?”

He moves his forehead against Yusuf’s.

Yusuf breathes out slowly. “It is not a matter of what we deserve. It is a matter of what we allow ourselves to choose and to accept—and I have chosen you, Nicolò. Could you come to accept that?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Good.” Yusuf leans away and Nicolò opens his eyes to meet his bright, relieved gaze. “That is—very good.” He holds Nicolò’s face between both of his hands and then presses his lips to his forehead in a firm kiss.

It’s a balm to calm his racing heart and when Yusuf wraps his arms around Nicolò and holds him against his chest it quells the fearful tremors in his limbs.

“I’m sorry I hid from you,” he confesses quietly. “I do trust you, but this… No one but my family knows. I have hidden this all my life. No one else was ever supposed to know.”

“Yet you showed me.”

“You inspire such honesty. It tortured me to keep it from you, but I dreaded what you would think of me and my duplicity. You would call me monstrous, kill me, and leave me before I returned to life. I couldn’t bear it—”

Yusuf quiets him with a hush and holds him more closely. “No, never. Never again. Set down this burden, dear one. No longer will you have to carry it, I promise you. You don’t have to hide from me.”

Nicolò sighs against him and relaxes.

Yusuf arranges them more comfortably so he might lean against one of the basket while Nicolò rests against his chest and lies between his legs. Yusuf’s embrace is warm and secure, arms tight around him. He nuzzles his face against Nicolò’s hair and presses stray, little kisses against his head, his temple, behind his ear. It fills him with enough joy to make him feel buoyant even out of the water.

“How is it that you are so calm about all of this?” he asks. “I would think any average person would not be so accepting.”

Yusuf hums contemplatively and the vibration of it through Nicolò’s back is a surprising sensation.

“I have told you about my family, yes?”

He nods. “You come from a long line of merchants who have traveled all through the Maghreb, Syria, and the Holy Land and trade in exotic furs, spices, and silks. They do well for themselves, don’t they?”

“We have been very fortunate to secure so many trade agreements over such an expansive area, yes.”

“And you left them to fight in this war.”

“I did.”

“Because you are a good man unparalleled.”

“Yes, if you say so,” Yusuf says with audible amusement. “Now, will you let me tell you about my grandfather?”

“Please do.”

Yusuf says, “My grandfather has claimed, ever since I was a boy, that as a younger man he once met an ifrit of the jinn where the Negev desert meets the Arabian. The afarit are powerful and usually wicked, so you see the concern in this story. My grandfather told me he was caught in a sandstorm with no hope for shelter. He said an ifrit appeared before him in the whirling sand, fire-colored and smelling of burning wood smoke. It promised to deliver him to shelter, saying it owed him a debt of gratitude. My grandfather followed the ifrit to a crevice between two rocks where the wind wouldn’t blow in. My grandfather asked why an ifrit of the jinn would help him and it told my grandfather he had freed it from a sorcerer’s lamp several seasons ago. My grandfather claims the lamp could be none other than a forgery he broke in a fit of anger, which a Seljuk Turk had tried selling to him.”

Yusuf pauses and lifts one of Nicolò’s hands, looking at the translucent webbing he’s just noticed between Nicolò’s fingers. He makes a curious sound, but returns Nicolò’s hand to the place it rested over his stomach.

“I had always thought my grandfather had imagined the ifrit and stumbled upon shelter on his own. I thought he had mistaken good fortune for fantastical intervention. Now, though… Now, I believe him. There is more than mankind and more than mere mortal life. I count myself twice-blessed to have proof of it.”

“Blessed,” Nicolò repeats. “I am not sure I would call myself blessed. It feels…blasphemous.”

Yusuf makes a disagreeable sound, which indicates he has several thoughts about the Frankish teachings of the Almighty but won’t voice them now.

“Consider this, then,” Yusuf says. “We have immortal life and each other. What would you call that?”

“A gift,” Nicolò says. He lifts Yusuf’s hand and places his lips to his palm. He settles Yusuf’s hand over his heart. “A precious gift.”

Yusuf kisses the back of his head in agreement. Nicolò closes his eyes, lulled by the sun and the affections of the man who accepted him without fear or anger, who loves him as much as Nicolò treasures him in return.

Suddenly, Yusuf says, “I have my answer. You asked me to think on it until we arrived at the coast. I have it now.”

Nicolò opens his eyes again in a bid to be more attentive. “What have you decided?”

“We need a break from war. I’m not sure for how long, but I need to fill myself with the goodness in this world before I return to its cruelties. I need to hear children laughing again and see fields full of good harvest. I need to know there is still peace and joy. When I can armor myself with it, we will return.”

It settles just right in Nicolò’s chest. If they are to spend eternity fighting in the muck then they cannot lose heart.

“What do you want to do first?”

“First,” Yusuf says with a grin in his voice, “I want to swim with you. Then, I want to take you sailing.”

Sailing. Yusuf. The sun and the sea.

Nicolò is, indeed, blessed.

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely have a couple more ideas for this 'verse. Stay tuned.


End file.
